Foreign Country

The drooping farmhouse and crumpled barn
stand small among million dollar mansions
cultivated like crops.

The road, once graveled dust
and rock-lined ruts, stretches
blacktop smooth toward upscale
bistros and gourmet supermarkets

where shoppers speak brioche, pesto,
Perrier, Riesling, baskets hold
Nutella rather than Hershey’s,
provincial Brie instead of
American cheddar.

Fourteen acres, an oasis of undevelopment,
speak of a past culture,
the utility of a barn, the muted volleys
like musket fire that identify a Farmall tractor,
sniffs of sassafras, manure and clover.

A bulldozer preys on the
disappearing landscape.
The bushwhacker bullies the farm,
an eyesore to new neighbors.

Through chicory and Queen Anne’s lace
the old farmer walks his fence line
in this foreign country.